The Battle for Earth
by The Lycanthrope
Summary: The greatest war mankind has ever fought, was fought against itself. This is the conclusion to the darkest chapter in the saga of human history, the Horus Heresy. Posted here for posterity. Not my work. No infringement intended.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: This is not my story. I did not write this. I am posting this because I read it, and typed it out, a long time ago, and have not been able to dig it up since. All contents herein are intellectual property of Games Workshop. No infringement intended.

Reviews for comment only, as this isn't mine...

This is not my fiction. This is GW WH40k canon. Reprinted here, for your collective perusal and enjoyment.

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This is the chronicle of the last days of the Horus Heresy. The conclusion to the most savage, destructive and comprehensive war that humanity has fought. When gods walked among men, and when history was being written before their eyes, and by their hands.

Even now, the echoes of the Heresy are heard ringing in the dark.

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On the thirteenth of Secundus, 30,014, the barrage bombardment began. From orbit the Warmaster's ships laid down an unrelenting barrage of missiles and deadly energy beams. The aim was to cripple the defences around the Emperor's Palace and make possible a massive invasion of Earth. The lunar bases had already fallen and the defending fleets had been scattered. On Mars, as across the entire vast Imperium, bitter civil war raged.

On countless worlds blood-mad warriors clashed. Some had pledged loyalty to the Emperor. Others had sworn fealty to Warmaster Horus, and, through him, to the dark powers of Chaos. The Emperor's realm was in turmoil and some of the greatest battles in human history were being fought.

On the hive-world of Thranx over a million warriors died in a single day on the killing fields of Perdagor.

On the blazing deserts of Tallarn, at the Ka'an Salient, fifty thousand tanks clashed in the greatest armoured action of all time.

During the spacedrop on Vanaheim three hive-cities were depopulated by rebel forces as a warning against resistance and still the defenders fought to the last man.

Like a cancer the Heresy infected the entire structure of the Imperium.

Everywhere brave men gave up their lives to try and excise that cancer.

It was on Eartb, at the very heart of humanity's realm, that the fate of the galaxy was to be decided. In those last days, the sky was black with dustclouds and the earth was split by gigantic fissures. Tectonic plates shifted under the stress of the bombardment. Mountain chains shivered and seas evaporated and became salty deserts. Rains of blood and ash dripped from the dark sky. Everywhere oracles muttered evil portents and men went mad with fear.

Hideously twisted ships full of the lost and the damned hung in orbit over the ravaged world. Shielded from the devastation by the cunningly wrought defences of the Adeptus Mechanicus a pitiful few stood ready to repel the invaders.

The embattled remnants of the Emperor's army were desperately trying to hold out until reinforcements arrived. The Emperor himself oversaw the defence of his fortress-palace, personally commanding the Adeptus Custodes, his elite guard. He was accompanied by Sanguinius, white-pinioned Primarch of the Blood Angels and his Chapter of Space Marines. In the palace grounds stood the stalwart Adeptus Arbites.

The palace was not the only bastion of resistance. There were others; each an awesome fortified city filled with dauntless soldiers. Beneath their Fortress-Monastery, grim-visaged Rogal Dorn led the stern Imperial Fists in final prayers. Within the armoured factory complexes of the Adeptus Mechanicus, techpriests put aside their tools and girded on the fearsome weapons of their order. In the rubble of burned-out hab-areas Primarch Jhagatai Khan mustered the White Scars, the Chapter of Space Marines he had personally instructed in the art of lightning warfare. Three full Titan legions stood ready to defend their Emperor.

As the earth shuddered under the bombardment, tank divisions roared across the tortured landscape to take up their position against the coming invasion. Brave men rechecked their weapons and offered up last prayers. Defence lasers swivelled to face the turbulent threatening sky. Suddenly, the night was streaked by the plasma contrails of drop-pods. Within the Emperor's halls even the Space Marines shuddered knowing that they would soon confront their lost and damned brethren. The terrifying prospect of facing those corrupt Primarchs who had sold their souls to Chaos filled every man's mind with indescribable horror and dread.

The pods touched ground and from them erupted the mightiest champions of Chaos, the renegade Space Marines of the lost Chapters. These were no longer the fine human warriors of legend but twisted creatures, bodies warped by the energies of Chaos, minds twisted by their devotion to the dark powers. If what had happened to the Space Marines was bad then what had happened to their Primarchs was worse. They had been created higher in the Emperor's esteem and had fallen further. None of their former comrades would have recognised them - they had been transformed into creatures both daemonic and exultant.

Mighty Angron bellowed orders to his blood-drinking followers, the World Eaters. Brandishing his great runesword, he led them against the defenders of Eternity Wall Space Port. Around his red-armoured followers bolter shots whined. Unflinchingly they advanced, determined to spill blood for the Blood God.

At Mortarion's soft-spoken command the Death Guard emerged silently from the festering cocoons of their drop-pods and advanced on their terror-stricken foes. The dread runes on Mortarion's scythe glittered eerily in the night as he gestured for them to advance.

Magnus the Red glared triumphantly about him with his one watchful eye before ordering the mage-warriors of the Thousand Sons to cast their spells of doom.

A hail of deadly bolter shells cut down dozens of the Emperor's Children. Undeterred, the wounded howled with pleasure at the experience and chanted the praises of their Primarch Fulgrim. The Renegade Space Marines surged forward to

carve a path through their foes.

Perhaps some defenders went mad with fear. Perhaps the corruption of Chaos ran deeper than anyone suspected. Perhaps some were foolish enough to think that they could negotiate with the ultimate enemy. Whatever the reason one last vile treachery was to take place. Many units of the Imperial army that had pledged loyalty to the Emperor turned blasphemer even as the Traitor Space Marines made their drop. It was almost as if it were a pre-arranged signal.

In one of the basest acts of betrayal in humanity's history they turned their weapons on their brother warriors and cut them down like dogs. Thus did the Lions Gate Spaceport fall to the rebels. As the heretics chanted and howled their mad prayers, the air shimmered and slavering daemons emerged from the warp to spread terror and dismay.

Then indeed did it seem to the defenders that they were living in the last days of mankind. Huge bat-winged Bloodthirsters swept triumphantly across the weeping skies. Clawed Keepers of Secrets danced lasciviously on piles of corpses. Great Unclean Ones chuckled as they lumbered through the ruined streets spreading trails of filth and slime and disease. Enigmatic Lords of Change perched atop the towers and statues and supervised the coming of Chaos to the heart of the Imperium.

Mighty ships began the descent from orbit, hoping to overwhelm the defenders by sheer weight of numbers. Unlike the drop-pods these presented fine targets for weapons of the defenders. And thus did the battle lasers blast many renegade ships from the sky, sending thousands of tons of fused metal death down onto the ground below. One giant craft span out of control and crashed into a hab-unit, killing a hundred thousand people. Another was welded to the ground, disgorging its passengers into a lake of bubbling tar and plascrete. The vessel of the Warped Dogs was vapourised and that Titan Legion's name passed into history.

As quickly as they disembarked, the Traitors surged forth from the spaceports to besiege the bastions of the defenders. Their first objective was to silence the lasers inflicting such casualties on their comrades. The rebels were met by a wave of Imperial defenders, desperate men who knew that they were giving their lives for their home and their Emperor.

In the tightly packed streets around the space ports the fighting was close and deadly. Bolters chattered and missile launchers delivered cargoes of death from building to nearby building. Traitor tanks rumbled through the avenues, turrets swivelling to bring weapons to bear on the hastily improvised barricades of their former comrades.

Soon the defenders of Eternity Wall Spaceport had been swept aside by the merciless assault and the hordes of the Warmaster were in total possession of the spacefield. More and more intricately wrought dropships descended from orbit. They towered over the landing ground like nightmare skyscrapers. The dark runes on their sides glowed evilly in the gloom. Hundred-metre high doors opened in their kilometres long sides. From their red depths Titans, ten times the height of a man, emerged. They were warped giants; the armour of their carapace fused and moulded into new shapes by the power of Chaos. Within them were men melded to their machines. Some of the hideous Titans had strange and potent weapons, others were a bizarre hybrid of the organic and the machine. Metal tentacles lashed, spiked tails whipped back and forth. Engines roared like the voices of angry beasts.

Banners fluttering, the Titans of the Storm Lords and Flaming Skulls legions marched forth. At Lions Gate Spaceport the traitors welcomed the towering black war engines of the Khornate host. Minotaurs and trolls and cultists seethed like angry ants around their bases.

Reinforced by this fresh wave of troops the hordes of Horus swept on, driving through the exhausted and demoralised Imperial troops to the very walls of the Emperor's palace. Khornate warriors mounted on bestial daemonic Juggernauts raced towards the marble and steel outer ring. Hordes of horn-headed Tzeentchian disc riders soared on the wind, bolts of mystic power erupting from their clenched fists to rake the defenders. Slaaneshi beast riders swept aside the Imperial Guard infantry and reached the Satumine Gate.

Round the walls bitter fighting ensued as the Imperials sallied forth, trying to drive the attackers back before the main body of the assaulting troops arrived. Men died in their thousands. From pillbox emplacements in the palace walls Imperial gun crews rained death down on the relentless attackers. Again and again the streets outside the palace were swept clear of heretics. Again and again new foes stepped forward to take their place.

Now indeed it seemed the tide of battle had turned against the Emperor. The spaceports were firmly in the grasp of the minions of the Warmaster. Untold thousands of troops poured down from orbit. Goatheaded beastmen, gibbering mutants and hideous amorphous Chaos Spawn surged out of the dread ships. Under the banner of the great eye, the sign of Horus, the lackeys of the four Great Powers of Chaos marched united. Mounted on Rhinos, lurking within mighty Behemoths and clinging to the sides of gigantic warengines they made their way en masse to the Emperor's palace.

Looking down on the seething sea of foulness the defenders' hearts went cold. Mingling with the daemons and the mad-eyed cultists, the trolls and the beastmen they could see heretical Space Marines and traitor Guardsmen. These were people they might have once fought alongside, who had once been as loyal to the Emperor as themselves. They looked upon a dark mirror of their souls. Down there they could see martial honour become berserk madness, human cleverness become sly treachery, hope become foulness and love become abominable lust. The brave men on the walls knew that there was no way out. Here they must stand and fight and die. There would be no mercy from those below. This was a war where there could be no honourable peace. It was destroy or be destroyed.

For a moment all was silence, then Angron strode forth. In his brazen voice he demanded that the loyalists surrender. He told them that their cause was hopeless, that they faced a foe who could not be defeated. They were cut off, outnumbered, and defending a ruler too weak to be worthy of their loyalty. In that moment the men on the walls felt their resolve weaken. Looking at the transformed face of the Primarch who had been one of the Emperor's finest warriors, they saw an invincible, relentless foe backed by a numberless horde and all the daemonic might of Chaos.

There was a clamour on the walls as Sanguinius and the Blood Angels arrived. Standing on the wall, the angel-winged man glared on Angron with angry contempt. For long moments their gazes locked. Each Primarch seemed to be measuring the other, searching for chinks in the armour, for any sign of weakness and lack of resolve. Who knows what they saw there? Perhaps they communicated telepathically, brother Primarch to brother Primarch. The truth will never be known. Eventually Angron turned and walked back to his lines. He told his troops that there would be no surrender; they should kill everyone they found within the palace. No stone should be left upon stone.

With a roar the horde advanced towards the walls. Great Lords of Battle lurched forward on iron wheels, crushing anything in their way, unloading racks of missiles and turning the area on the top of the walls into blazing storms of death. Doom burners sent tongues of superheated metal licking out at the emplacements. Molten brass filtered through the windows and scalded those inside. Multi-tracked Cauldrons of Blood squirted jets of obscene daemonic ichor onto the defenders. Enormous fleshhounds of Khorne loped forward in their wake. Titans armed with specially constructed siege weapons lumbered into position. Battle cruisers dropped megatons of explosive death onto the defenders.

Every loyal warrior knew that he was already dead; that there was no way he could survive the coming of the daemonic army. The soldiers fought with the desperate ferocity of hopeless men, firing until their weapons were empty, snatching up the bolters of the fallen, and facing monsters with the butts of their guns when all ammunition was exhausted. Three times the horde managed to scale the walls, and three times it was driven off by the valiant efforts of Sanguinius and the Blood Angels. Wearily the Primarch marshalled the defenders, rallying the broken, speaking words of comfort to the mortally wounded, fighting with cold, implacable fury when he was called upon to do so. Slowly though, despite his efforts, the Chaos forces managed to erode the defence. They seemed numberless as the grains of sand on a seashore and Horus spent their lives carelessly.

Outside the walls Imperial forces frantically raced from their bastions to try and relieve the palace. Titan legions boldly cut their way towards the centre of the rebel army. The Whitescars harried its flanks. No attempt to break the rebel line succeeded. Breaking through that blood-mad horde was a near impossible task. All four of the daemonic Primarchs inspired their followers to feats of fiendish bravery. For every Chaos warrior who died it seemed two more stood ready to take his place.

In orbit the Warmaster watched approvingly. If the palace fell and the Emperor died loyalist legions across the galaxy would lose heart and the war would be over. Without the psychic shield of the Emperor's power, humanity would swiftly fall prey to Chaos. Horus would stand triumphant amid the rubble of humanity's greatest empire. He would become a new and angry god. If he did not win soon reinforcements would filter in from the corners of the Imperium, and his attack would falter. For the Warmaster, this was the desperate ultimate gamble. Everything was staked on this attack. It had to succeed, and at that moment, it looked as if it might.

Day by day the siege wore on, casualties rose from the thousands to tens of thousands to hundreds of thousands to the millions and beyond. Bodies had to be bulldozed from the access-ways to the Satumine Gate by war machines. Chaos Titans blazed at the walls, specially constructed missiles ripping great chunks from the masonry. The Titans of the Fire Wasps answered their fire with volcano cannons. The smell of burning flesh filled the air as the corpses of the dead were incinerated in funeral pyres a hundred foot high. Obscene ash parched the throats of the defenders. The World Eaters built a pyramid of scorched skulls sixty foot high in Temple Square. By night the chants of degenerate cultists echoed through the streets and daemons flitted among the ruins of Earth.

Slowly, foot by torturous foot, the defenders were forced back. The great walls of the palace were riddled with hundreds of kilometres of bulkheads and corridors. Within this maze hand to hand fighting ensued till entire sections of passage were filled with bloated corpses. Feeling progress was too slow, Horus ordered Titans of the Death's Head Legion to demolish entire sections of the wall. Despite taking tremendous casualties the great Warlord Titans broke through, and the forces of the Warmaster flooded into the palace grounds.

While all this was taking place Jhagatai Khan had implemented a change of plan. Rather than throwing away his forces against the near invincible bulk of the main Chaos army he launched a lightning raid against Lions Gate Space Port. This night attack was spearheaded by the shaven-headed warriors of the Whitescars, who led the remnants of the 1st Tank Division and elements of the surviving Guard armies against the surprised heretics. Khan threw a defensive perimeter around the space port and held it against all counter-attacks. The flow of men and materials towards the palace was halved at a stroke.

This success gave heart to the defenders. They swiftly attempted to seize Eternity Wall Space Port but here the forces of the Warmaster were better prepared. The attackers were ambushed and driven back by traitors. Horus knew it was imperative to keep his beachhead secure. The final push on the inner palace had begun.

The battle raged across the grounds of the Inner Gardens. What had once been a vast parkland was swiftly turned into a killing ground. Men used statues for cover and monuments for bunkers. Blood swirled in the waters of the ornamental lakes. Groves of ancient redwoods burned. The smell of the burning mingled with the acrid odours of weapons and engines and death. Red-eyed, snatching sleep when they could, both sides fought a total war. Trenches were hurriedly excavated in the meadows. Snipers killed men as they tried to sip brackish water from the ruined fountains.

Both sides fought with unimaginable naked ferocity. Both sides sensed the end was near.

Eventually Sanguinius was forced to retreat to within the palace itself, personally holding the Ultimate Gate against the oncoming horde while the last of his wounded men was carried through. Just as the giant ceramite gate was about to close a Bloodthirster of Khorne leapt upon him. The daemon's huge talons closed around his throat. Sanguinius took to the air. Angel and daemon wrestled over the warring armies. Both sides halted for a moment to watch the titanic struggle. It was a conflict such as has been rarely seen; two beings of awesome power wrestled.

Sanguinius was weary and near the end of his strength and the daemon gouged great wounds in his flesh. The heretical throng roared its approval as the Primarch was cast to the ground, the impact splintering the granite. For a moment the Primarch lay still and a groan rose from the Blood Angels, the daemon stood over him and howled in exhultation. Then slowly and painfully the Blood Angel rose and seized the creature, raised it high and broke its back across his knee. Then with a halo of power playing round his head he tossed its broken carcass back amid its followers. They beat their chests and rent their hair and wailed in dismay as the Ultimate Gate shut.

A great Sky Fortress bore Rogal Dorn and the remnants of the Imperial Fists to the inner palace. The loyal old general was determined to stand and die with his Emperor in the final hour. The Sky Fortress raced away from the palace in a desperate attempt to reach Jhagatai Khan and return him to the palace. It was destroyed by a blaze of fire from the Death's Heads Titan Legions. Even in death its commander wrought havoc on the enemy, bringing the crippled vehicle down into the centre of the Chaos Horde. It seemed as if a new sun was born on Earth as the airship's plasma reactor exploded, blasting out a crater three kilometres across. Those within the palace knew they were cut off; now they were truly alone. Only a miracle could save them.

Now the final siege began. Through great breaches in the outer walls more and more armaments and reinforcements were brought to bear. The Warmaster himself prepared to teleport down to the surface and supervise the destruction of his former lord. Then a daemon from the Warp whispered to him the words that he had dreaded.

A loyalist fleet under Leman Russ and Lion El'Johnson bearing a fresh army of Space Wolves and Dark Angels was only hours away. It would take days to break humanity's last citadel, even with Horus leading his troops. It seemed that time had run out for the Warmaster, that his gamble had failed.

Horus was first among the fallen, with the power of a god and the cunning of a daemon. He resolved to try one final desperate gambit. He could still kill the Emperor. He ordered all comm-net communications blocked so that the defenders would get no word from their rescuers and then he used his psychic powers to the full to prevent the Emperor becoming aware of this. Finally he dropped the shields of his command ship. It was an invitation and a personal challenge that he knew the Emperor could not resist. He was being offered a chance finally to smite the foe that had harried him for so long.


	2. Chapter 2

Even through the shields impact makes the Imperial Palace shake. With a screech of tortured stone an angel topples from its alcove high on the throne room wall and crashes to the marble floor a kilometre below. It shatters into a million pieces. Splinters of stone flash across the hall like shrapnel.

From his throne the Emperor watches his warriors mill around in confusion. This hall holds more than ten thousand men, seasoned veterans, and all now panicking. He knows they are more frightened by his silence than by the enemy. They look to him for leadership and he can give them none.

For the first time in his millennia-long life the Emperor knows despair. The magnitude of his defeat stuns him. The lunar bases have fallen. Most of the earth is under the Warmaster's heel. Rebel Titans, towering above the defenders, surround the palace and are held at bay only by the desperate efforts of a few loyalists. It is only a matter of time before the palace's defences fail and the last bastions of resistance fall.

"Sire, what are your orders?" asks Rogal Dorn, massive dark-haired Primarch of the Imperial Fists.

His golden armour has lost its lustre, is dented in a dozen places by bolter shells. The Emperor doesn't answer. He is lost within himself seeking answers to his own questions.

He has come at last to the dark place, the time of testing, the era hidden from his precognitive vision and beyond which he cannot see. The moment he has always dreaded has arrived. Is my time over, he wonders? Is this where it all ends? Is this why I have reached the limits of my prophetic powers. Is this where I die?

He felt bewildered. Even now, the Traitor Warmaster's forces were battering at the gate, he finds it difficult to believe that he has been betrayed.

Horus was more than a trusted comrade, more like a favoured son. Of all the Primarchs the Emperor relied on him most. Not for a second had the Emperor doubted him, not even when word had come from the Savage Worlds that the Warmaster was gathering forces. He had deluded himself that Horus must have good reason to do so without consulting him. I should have been warned by the failure of my precognition, he thinks.

"Sire, what are your orders?" asks Kane, acting Fabricator-General of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

He stares at the Emperor, a trick of light turning the glass slits of his brass mask into accusing eyes. Once more the Emperor does not reply. Kane's presence reminds him that not even the head of the Adeptus is to be trusted. His superior, the former Fabricator-General, has chosen to side with Horus.

On Mars civil war rages between factions of Tech-Priests. Ancient, forbidden weapons are being deployed. Viral plagues kill millions. Fusion bombs scar the earth.

So much will be lost. He thinks of the slow piecing together of the old science. The Librarium Technologicus is in flame now, ancient core data systems in meltdown. The time of re-building is over. The Great Crusade, as much a quest for lost knowledge as a war to reclaim the human worlds, is ended. The Warmaster's treachery has seen to that.

"Sire, what are your orders?" asks Sanguinius, angel winged Primarch of the Blood Angels.

He gazes at the Emperor with blazing eyes, his face a mask of terrible beauty.

The Emperor knows they rely on him for guidance. They still believe in him. They think he can lead them from this trap. They are wrong.

Horus is the greatest general the galaxy has ever known. Who should know better than his creator? He is schooled by centuries of warfare. There will be no way out, no loopholes, no flaws in the plan. The Warmaster would have to be mad to leave one.

The Emperor looks down on the faces of his followers, sees the trust written there, feels the weight of responsibility it brings. He knows that for their sake he must try, even if it is hopeless, He casts forth his clairvoyant sight, lets his mind drift beyond the ruined gardens of the palace, over fields where colossal Titans battle by the twisted light of the blast-sculpted moon. He sees the whole war spread out beneath him, his pitifully outnumbered legions being ground down by the traitor hordes. He reaches up to the sky, where he senses the fleet of battlebarges that rain orbital doom upon the tortured Earth. Amid those thousand glittering points he finds the Warmaster.

Hope flickers within him. The shields of Horus's ship are down. Briefly he wonders why. Is the traitor's confidence so overwhelming? Does he wish to witness the battle himself. Or is it a trap? The Emperor touches the ship and recoils from what he senses within. How could Horus have done that, made a pact with the ultimate abomination?

The Emperor comes to a decision. Trap or not, this is the only opportunity he will get. He has no option but to seize it; the position is so desperate. Even as his spirit returns to his body, the ominous thought strikes him that the Warmaster must know this.

"What are your orders, Sire?" Sanguinius asks again. The Emperor's eyes snap open. His voice is full of authority.

"Prepare to teleport. We will take the battle to the enemy."

The men smile confidently. They now have a purpose. While he inputs the teleport co-ordinates they move, without question, to obey.

A flash of light, a feeling of coldness. They have teleported into the Warmaster's ship. The Emperor takes an instant to re-orientate himself and realises that something has gone wrong. He stands in a vast, warped chamber with only a few Marines in attendance. The Terminators and Primarchs are not present. How is this possible he wonders. Could Horus have disrupted the teleportation beam? Is he so powerful?

Insane voices gibber madly inside his skull. There are figures trapped in the stone walls of the vast room. Hands reach out for him, grasp at him with rock-like strength. He shrugs them off easily. His comrades are not so lucky. Bolters chatter and flash as the Marines attempt to fight off their demonic assailants. A man screams as he is drawn into the dark and slimy walls. As he vanishes, ripples spread from his point of disappearance. The Emperor's sword lashes out, severing limbs, freeing trapped Marines. He summons his psychic energies. A nimbus flickers around his head as he unleashes his power. A tidal wave of destruction rips through the daemons, leaving his own men unscathed.

He scans about him, seeking the Primarchs but the walls of the Warmaster's Battle Barge are resistant to his mindsight. He gestures for the surviving Marines to follow him.

They wander through the ship distorted beyond all recognition by the warping power of Chaos. Great sphincter-doors distend from walls of flesh-like stone. Transparent veins bear rivers of blood along conduits in the floor. Carpets of mucous cover a road of tongues.

Winged and distorted things that might once have been human flit through the archways of bone and perch on ledges of rib. The Marines gasp in horror. He exerts himself to calm them, psychically soothing their fear of this dreadful place. All the while he scans the area looking for the spoor of Horus. He knows now the nature of the pact the Warmaster has made and the dreadful consequences of his victory.

They pass pits that gape like glistening gullets in the floor and echo the beats of a distant giant heart. They are showered by waterfalls of stinking yellowish liquid that cascades down cliffs of carved cartilage. Sometimes they hear weapons fire but when they arrive at the source they find nothing.

Mists of rainbow vapour drift across their field of vision, obscuring corridors of carnivorous stone. Clouds of insects swarm over their faceplates and choke the extractors of their airpipes. They switch over to internal oxygen supply.

They are ambushed by scuttling skull-faced things in the armour of Marines. They fight hordes of mutated beasts. One by one they die. In the end the Emperor stands alone. Then and only then is he allowed to enter the presence of Horus.

The Warmaster bestrides the body of a broken angel. Behind him the tortured earth fills the viewport, a bauble for Horus to seize with one clawed hand. Corpses of massacred Marines lie everywhere.

Face glowing with internal bloodlight. Horus speaks.

"Poor Sanguinius. I offered him a position of power in the new order. He could have sat at the right hand of a god. Alas he chose to align himself with the losing side."

The Emperor stands transfixed, trying to force frozen words from his tongue. In the end he can only whisper,

"Why?"

Mad laughter rings out. 

"Why? You ask me why? Have all those millennia taught you nothing? Weak fool, your timidity prevented you from binding the forces of Chaos. You shied away from the ultimate power. I have bound it to my will and will lead humanity into the new age. I, Horus, Master of Chaos."

The Emperor looks at his former friend and shakes his head. He sees the trap that has ensnared Horus.

"No man can master Chaos," he says quietly. "You have deluded yourself. You are the servant, not the master."

A look of rage transfigures the Warmaster. He stretches out a hand and a bolt of force leaps forth. The Emperor screams as agony wracks his body.

"Feel the true nature of my power then tell me I am deluded," roars Horus, in the voice of an angry god.

Beads of sweat stand out on the Emperor's forehead, he steels himself against the pain.

"You are deluded," he says.

Once again Horus gestures and lances of pure poison sear through the Emperor's veins. 

"I let you come here, old friend, so that you could witness my triumph. Kneel before me and I will spare you. Acknowledge the new master of mankind."

Desperately the Emperor summons his power and lashes out. Lightning flickers between the combatants. The stench of ozone fills the air. The Emperor leaps forward, sword raised. Weapons clash as battle is joined on every level: physical, spiritual, psychic.

Bolts of force flicker as mortal gods clash, balancing the fate of the galaxy on every blow. Runesword and lightning claw ring against each other with a sound like thunder. Energies potent enough to level planets are unleashed.

A backhand buffet from Horus knocks the Emperor through a stone bulkhead. The counterstroke tears a supporting column out of the ceiling as the Warmaster ducks.

In the warp the Emperor hears the Chaos Powers howl as they feed their pawn more power. The Lord of Humanity stands alone against their massed might and knows that he is losing. Somehow he cannot bring his full force to bear on the Warmaster. Horus shows no such restraint.

A lightning claw cuts the Emperor's armour as if it were cloth, sheers through flesh and bone. The Emperor ripostes with a psychic stroke intended to disrupt the Warmaster's nervous system. Horus laughs as he deflects it.

His claws take the Emperor across the throat, opening windpipe and jugular. Another blow severs the tendons on his wrist, causing the sword to drop from nerveless fingers.

Insane laughter echoes round the chamber. Horus breaks several ribs with an almost playful punch. A surge of energy seers the Emperor's face, melting the flesh till it runs, bursting an eyeball, setting his hair alight. The Emperor stifles a whimper, wonders how he can be losing. Blackness threatens to engulf him.

Horus grasps his wrists, splintering bones. Blood pumps from the Emperor's throat. Horus lifts his foe above his head and brings him down across his knee, breaking his spine.

For a second the Emperor knows only darkness then a flare of agony brings him back to consciousness as Horus rips his arm from its socket. The Warmaster howls with bestial triumph.

Suddenly the battering stops. Through his good eye the Emperor sees a solitary Terminator has entered the room. The Marine charges towards the Warmaster, stormbolter blazing. Horus looks at him and laughs. For a moment he stands triumphant, allowing the Marine to see what he has done to his Emperor

The Emperor knows what is going to happen next, sees the gloating triumph on Horus' face. There is no trace of his friend left there. There is only a daemon driven by insane destructive fury.

Horus turns his burning gaze on the Terminator and the Marine's armour and flesh flakes away to reveal his skeleton, then even that is gone, reduced to dust.

The Emperor sees the trap that has been set for him. He has been restraining himself, trying not to hurt one who had been as a son to him. Now he sees that there is no trace of his trusted comrade left. He knows that he must stop this semblance of his former friend and avenge the fallen Terminator. He must strike one deadly blow. He will get no other chance.

He gathers every particle of his power, focuses it into a mighty bolt of pure force, more coherent than a laser, more destructive than an exploding sun. He aims it as Horus, a lance of power destined for the madman's heart. Horus senses the upsurge of energy and turns to face the Emperor, a look of horror on his face.

The Emperor lets fly. It strikes the Warmaster. Horus screams as destruction rains down on him, twisting and writhing in titanic agony. He strives frantically to counter the Emperor's deathblow but his struggles become more feeble as the lethal energies play over him.

Driven by all the force of his rage and pain and hatred the Emperor wills Horus's death. He senses the forces of Chaos retreat, disengaging themselves from their pawn. As they do so sanity returns to the Warmaster. The Emperor sees realisation of the atrocities he has committed flicker across Horus' face. Tears glisten there.

Horus is free but the Emperor knows he himself is dieing and that the Powers of Chaos may once again possess the Warmaster and he will not be there to stop them. He cannot take that risk.. Horus must die. Yet for a second, looking into his old friends face, he hesitates, unable to do the deed. Then he thinks of the slaughter that still goes on outside, may go on forever. Resolve hardens within him.

He forces all mercy and compassion from his mind, empties it of all knowledge of friendship and camaraderie and love. His eyes lock with Horus and see understanding there. Then with full cold knowledge of what he is doing, the Emperor destroys the Warmaster.

Rogal Dorn enters the chamber. Horror fills him as he sees the mutilated form of the Emperor and the shrivelled husk inside the Warmaster's armour. He curses himself for taking so long to fight through the Chaotic hordes. He knows now why their attacks ceased and why the ship is reverting to normal.

He rushes to the Emperor's side, detecting the faint pulse of life. Perhaps there is yet hope. Perhaps the ruler of the Imperium, and the Imperium itself, may live.

Rogal Dorn will do his best to ensure it.


End file.
